


Eyes of a Corpse

by The_Fictionist_Aura



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Friendship, Gen, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fictionist_Aura/pseuds/The_Fictionist_Aura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's days on the streets. "He blinked and just stared at her. It wasn't an angry stare. But it wasn't kind either. In fact, it lacked life at all. She felt like she was looking into the eyes of a dead corpse." May be a series of one shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was suffering from a hangover when Joan had first met him.

An empty bottle stood next to his slumped sitting figure, his back too used to the cold hard concrete under it. At first glance, he had a look of a sleeping homeless man. No one would take notice of the liquor bottles that surrounded him since there was too much trash around to take in. The eye immediately fell on the mop of dark hair that was bowed downward in unconscious defeat. The man was wrapped in a worn patchwork quilt that looked too good for someone like him to own. His toes poked out of ancient loafers, revealing dirty nails and dry skin.

Joan slowly inched toward him. Her bags crinkled in her hands as she approached. She had been watching this spot for a couple weeks and this man always seemed to be there, in the same position. Gradually she began to suspect that he was dead. Yet there was a different bottle next to him every day. Today it was a half full bottle of Jack. Yesterday's vodka bottle was shattered in pieces in front of him. The only thing that reminded intact was the neck.

"Hello?" A breeze drove through the alley as she leaned closer to the ragdoll of a human. He appeared to be breathing but slower than was normal. Joan hesitated before giving his upper arm a nervous poke.

The head twitched a bit, almost like a muted flinch. But it remained down, chin buried into his chest.

She poked him again. She wasn't sure why she wanted to wake him up. Probably because she had been studying him for a while and couldn't help feel pity for someone who seemed to just exist. Most of the homeless she lived with had hobbies like music, dance, something that kept them occupied from diving into the reasons why they were there. This man had alcohol instead.

Slowly the head rose and she took in the bush of hair that was growing on him like a wildfire. The only sign that the grizzly bear before her was human were the two piercing eyes that were looking at her. They were gazed with the influence of booze but the color was unique.

"Hey. You hungry?"

He blinked and just stared at her. It wasn't an angry stare. But it wasn't kind either. In fact, it lacked life at all. She felt like she was looking into the eyes of a dead corpse.

Her hands rustled against the plastic of her bag as she pulled out a weathered sandwich. Joan held it up in offering, a light smile on her face. "Here. Looks like you need it more than I do."

His eyes finally moved from her face and down her hunched body. He eyed the stuffed Christmas sweater and faded jeans dully. Her tennis shoes shuffle his blatant examination of her body.

"I think you need it more than me." His voice was not what she expected at all. A deep rumble maybe but instead, it is soft and quick, remarkably clear after its journey through the man's beard.

"Says the guy that hasn't eaten for several days." Joan moved the sandwich closer to his mouth. His eyes had a small spark of surprise in them at her last statement. She sees the filth under his fingernails as he takes the sandwich from her with his right hand and shoves it toward a patch of hair. After a minute, it resurfaced from the hair depths, a large bite of it missing. His eyes remained glued to her face as he ate. It was unnerving.

"The name's Joan." Again, the man was silent, polishing off the food in a matter of five minutes. She had seen hungry men devour disgusting edibles from the trash many times in this life yet this calm eating was foreign to her. It was mannered and dignified, despite the man's general appearance.

"Thank you." The two words had a waterfall of emotion behind them; just by the way they were spoken. It was obvious that the man had a heavy amount of baggage on him. In her watching of him, she couldn't get away from the feeling that he had long lost the will to life and were merely waiting for death to greet him like an old friend. Her heart ached to save him from himself.

Joan stuck out her hand, her aged veins pronounced. "There's more. We've got an empty warehouse a few blocks from here. Could use another set of hands." The man's eyes had a brief flash of an unfathomable emotion. He made no move to reach for her.

She waited, her hand getting goose bumps from the cool air around them.

Sloth – like, he placed his hand cautiously into hers. It was callous and hard as if he washed his hands in sawdust daily. His knuckles had scabs and she suddenly had the feeling he had been in several fights.

The way he struggled to get upright, however, changed her mind. As he swayed to the left, she wrapped one of her arms around his waist and gave him a tug toward the exit of the alley. A groan of agony escaped his lips and a hand flew to his forehead.

"Hangover." He said coarsely. He dragged his feet as they walked on the sidewalk. Joan could feel him breathing on top of her head, his greasy locks tickling her forehead as he leaned on her for support.

She didn't respond but gritted her teeth slightly at his weight. She wasn't as strong as she used to be and this man seemed to be pure muscle. It took a while for them to reach the warehouse door, where a young woman with a harmonica looked up from her half eaten drumstick.

"Look what the cat dragged in." She made no effort to help Joan as she hastily dumped the barely conscious man unto a sheet of cardboard. He landed awkwardly on his shoulder, a crack of bone audible.

The woman with the drumstick leered at the tall bundle of clothing and nudged him with her foot. "Does it have a name?" Her voice had a tone of disinterest.

"John." He managed to wheeze out as he gripped his shoulder in dizzy pain before everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

The beard didn't suit him but he kept it as another barrier in the fortress he forced himself into. For the first month or so, John never said anything except for answering yes or no questions. Even those, he tried to avoid at all costs. Sometimes he would disappear for a few days and return with some form of supplies, food or extra clothing and blankets. The one thing he never parted with was his checkered orange and white quilt that Joan found him in. He slept with it and kept it neatly folded on top of his cardboard every morning.

It was a Tuesday night, the dark crisp with the murmur of the homeless, quiet chuckles and crinkling newspaper. Joan was sitting in an upright position and having her hair brushed by Sophia, a fellow friend. John watched the rhythmic strokes of the comb in silence. He found the routine motion soothing, like a hypnotic pendulum. His eyes wandered from the brunette's hand and to the heavy fur coat she worn. Underneath were a skin tight halter top and a mini skirt. It was a small wonder that she never got frostbite in this weather.

Sophia's occupation saddened John more than anything. It was almost offensive how such a sweet woman was forced to do such a thing to help keep herself alive. The money she earned went toward the general population of the warehouse as well, despite Joan's protests. Most of the inhabitants looked to her as a provider rather than a call girl.

"You want your hair brushed too, John?" Sophia's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. His hooded eyes just looked at her hopeful expression. She was one of the only people other than Joan that seemed determined to get him to open up. Neither had been any closer to success since his arrival. His hand automatically lingered to the back of his head. As his fingertips brushed against the split ends, Sophia carefully approached him. He tried to hide back a smile. She had the look of a zoo keeper trying to feed a lion.

He scooted a little bit closer, giving the woman the small amount of encouragement she needed. Nimble in her high heels, she headed over and sat herself down behind John before he could change his mind. Without a warning, she reached out a hand and run it through his hair. His arm jerked toward her but instantly slacked afterward. Ignoring the racing of her heart, Sophia kept her hand rested on his head. Not surprisingly, his hair was tangled from neglect. She didn't even bother asking when as the last time he washed it because in truth, she was afraid what the answer might be. Though he no longer drink himself to death, the man continued to disregard his well being, almost as if to punish himself for something.

John felt the comb teeth press on his scalp and he found himself leaning back at the touch. He had forgotten what it was like to have his hair brushed, especially by someone else. His head bobbed as she worked on a particularly stubborn knot. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Joan hovering over an old fridge door, a foam container in her hand.

"Do you like your hair this long?" He felt uncomfortable as she breathed into his ear. It wasn't meant to be sensual yet all of his training instincts were screaming that it was an interrogation tactic. She went back to combing his hair, clearly not expecting an answer.

"No." The comb paused for a millisecond before continuing his path to the nape of his neck.

"Then why keep it this long…" Her tone of voice had a wonder behind it. He imagined her face held a confused expression.

"Keeps people away." His brutal honesty was surprising himself. Yet he felt he owned Sophia something for all the gentle prying she had been doing for the month he had been here. Hardly anyone paid him any attention unless something needed to be moved or dinner was ready. Not that he minded, to be honest, he was perfectly ok with that sort of calling. But he did appreciate the genuine effort and care she and Joan seemed to have for him.

The call girl doesn't reply but quietly finishes fixing his hair by parting his hair out of his eyes.

"I was wondering where those eyes were buried." Joan grinned at John's new look like a prideful mother. His lip curled to one side as he took the foam container from her and glances inside.

"Chow mien!" Sophia squealed, eagerly dipping her fingers into the pile of noodles and shoving a handful in her mouth. John's lip curled again as he takes some noodles for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Yeah, these keep coming to me so I'll try to hold off until I get more feedback xD but this one was calling my name. That and my OC wanted to come out and say hi…


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Rating went up due to some mature themes and language

The warehouse rarely came across problems of violence.  For the most part, everyone liked the little community that leaned on each other in hard times.  Another reason why there were rarely fights without the building; when you lean on each other for basic warmth in New York winters, you tend to try to be on friendly terms with everyone.  Minus the drunks and crazies (only a handful), yes, it was a tight knit community. 

John wasn’t sure how to feel about it at first.  Everyone seemed to continue to accept him well – again minus some drunks– and began to see him as a provider and protector.  Not quite to the standard of Sophia but he did tend to “appear” with random supplies.  In reality, he found himself spiraling sometimes into floods of guilt.  The booze helped numb it.  So he would follow local criminals and gangs around.  In reality, they needed to work on being less conspicuous since it wasn’t using much of his skills to find them.  Then, he would ransack their hideouts and take their supplies and either sell them to random shops and take them back to the warehouse.  The fact that there was usually some cheap alcohol at every raid was just a plus. 

When he came back, often Joan would eye him but not press for questions.  Eagerly, the rest of the homeless would grab what they could and thank him profusely. “That’s our John,” they said, “bring home the bacon.”  Their words of gratitude had become quite a comfort to him as he discovered one night when he came empty handed.

Most people saw his empty hands and didn’t venture to say hello.  One youngster, a nine year old named Matt, however approached him with a tooth gap smile.  “Jay!”

For reasons unknown, the boy had given him this nickname a while ago.  John nodded to him, his beard twitching as he tried not to smile.

“Did ya bring somethin’?”  John carefully shook his head.  In truth, he had found a crime hideout but it only had guns and booze.  He had gladly pocketed the whiskey and hid towards the outside of the warehouse where he kept most of his stash.  But there had been nothing else worth bringing; selling the guns could bring suspicion and selling the booze…was never an option.

Matt’s lips trembled in disappointment.  “Aw…I was hoping for a new blanket.  Mom always hogs the blanket in her sleep and-“ here he leaned in, hand covering the profile of his mouth, “she snores somethin’ terrible, whateve’ she says.”  The boy nodded very seriously.

This time, the bearded man smiled.  His face felt almost pained – he hadn’t smiled in what felt like years.  His skin was tight from the permanent scowl on his face. 

“I’ll get one tomorrow.”

The youngster jumped, in excitement as well as shock from hearing John’s voice – a rare occurrence.   John went to his piece of cardboard and handed the boy his carefully folded orange quilt.  “Use this tonight.”  The little one’s eyes widened in awe as he took the prized possession.

“Are ya sure?” 

But the man had already turned away and gone back outside.  The boy stood for a while and then shrugged.  Heading back to his sleeping spot next to his pregnant mother, he could have swore he heard some glasses clattering together from outside the wall they were lying against. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As for the protector part, that came from one night when one particular aggressive client of Sophia followed her to the warehouse.

Covered waist down with his worn infamous quilt, John’s back was resting against an unfinished wall, eyes covered in intoxicated slumber.  He woke up to a shouting match happening in the middle of the building.  Blinking, he focused on the main source of the yelling.  A medium height dark – haired man with peppered hair and what sounded like a slight lisp when he was fired up.  The man had a navy blue snow jacket and khaki slacks.  A bit of a hunchback, he noted, probably from a desk job.  Sophia was facing the angry male and her facial expression was a mixture between frustration and genuine fear. 

“I’m telling you, we’re not finished with our business here!”  Other than the lisp, the man seemed perfectly in shape, his broad shoulder noticeable under the jacket.  Lazily, John found himself getting up from his watching spot. 

“Hack up a lung why, don’t you?” A blonde woman snapped from her piece of cardboard.  A bottle of cooking wine was set next to her head.  “Some people are trying to sleep here, you half-toed toad!  Jack off somewhere else!”

The man’s head spun to face her and he took a step toward her lying form.  “Shut up, bitch,” he growled.  

The other people in the warehouse seemed to be slowly waking up one by one.  Yet, no one did anything.  They just watched, some alarmed and some seeing it as entertainment.  A few, including Joan, had looks of worry about them. 

“Don’t mind her, she’s drunk,” Sophia stammered, her Spanish accent slipping in her emotional state.  She attempted to reach out to the man to calm him.  Instead, he saw her arm move and grabbed it roughly.  The man’s face pushed forcefully on her neck, nuzzling it.

“Hey, I’m not drunk-“

“Be quiet, Lisa!” Joan had walked over to the blonde and clamped her mouth shut.

“Hey get off of her!”

“Bastard!”

“Man whore!”

There were a few people in the crowd that were shouting towards the struggling couple at the center of the ruckus.

“S-stop it.”  Tears were threatening to fall from Sophia’s eyes and her voice cracked as she tried to pull away from the client’s grasp.  The man’s reply was muffled against her chest.

Somehow, John found next to the man and wrenching him away from the flustered woman.  His instincts took over and all he could see was red.  Anger, guilt, death.  The name “Jessica” seemed to flash everywhere.  He himself didn’t understand what he was feeling or remember much of what he did.  When he emerged from his rage, the middle aged man was on the floor with a black eye, bloody nose and probably some broken ribs and there were five homeless men trying to hold him back. 

“Hey, John.  Relax.”  He turned his head to the right, his beard feeling terribly heavy for some reason. 

Joan was talking him in soothing tones.  None of the words registered.  Instead, he found himself grabbing his orange quilt as he left the warehouse wordlessly.  His breathing was ragged, still heated from the brawl – though perhaps beating was more accurate.  His thumb stroked the fabric and he stood a few yards away from his old shelter, staring at the blanket. 

He didn’t come back inside for a few hours.


	4. Chapter 4

After the incident, it was assumed that Sophia and John were a couple.  After all, why else would John be so passionate about Sophia and someone man-handling her.  Naturally people had been concerned for her in the moment and yelled petty names at the man but to risk their own skin?  Only one.

To be fair, the idea of love was twisted in the community.  Love, with frills, knights in shiny armor and nights out doesn’t exist.  It’s like a historical ritual that old people tell stories about it but you don’t believe.  A time when there was money available, checks came in twice a month, entertainment like books and movies were nothing, and food on the table was the ordinary.   Love was by definition a luxury.  You put your feelings into someone – you almost share feelings and thoughts – your soul.  People could barely share a loaf of bread.  Why share one of the few things they owned?

Love and partnerships did exist in the homeless realm, let there be no mistake.  But there were no weddings or marriages and no honeymoon stage to go through.  It’s like marrying someone in the middle of their midlife crisis or their elderly years when they needed the most care.  They leaned on each other a lot and have a few carefree moments.  In a way, it’s the ultimate test of companionship; dealing with each other during trying times.  Some couples last and some don’t.  Usually the young ones are the easiest to break up.  The drama is almost like free TV.  Almost.

John observed couples often.  Thinks about their troubles.  He gravitated towards them without realizing it.  It was of faint reminiscence of a happier time.  Most of them, he didn’t know the names of and he preferred it that way.  Names made them real.  He preferred to see them as a faint dream of his; something his subconscious makes up to cope.  Any other thing in the world that resembles love must be a lie.

So the whispers of Sophia and him being a couple angered him in some sense.  He would prefer to be left in his numb, drunken bubble with flashes on Jessica’s hair in his sleep and the blood of foreigners underneath his fingernails.  No other significant females in his bubble.  Only one. 

Sophia, on the other hand, hardly cared.  She joked about the pairing – to other people, of course.  Never to John’s face.  “A hooker needs her husband,” she would say, half wobbling in on stilettos after a Friday night of service.  And the old birds in the crowd would coo with adoration and excitement for “young love” as they called it.  It brought hope in their eyes for the future.  What future, Sophia didn’t know and she was certain John didn’t either.  She did ask one white-haired lady once, what she meant by “the future”.

“You know…the future generations, the children…” her faded green eyes were doe-like in ignorance.  A handful of people seemed to have this thought that they would have children and somehow find money to live in a suburb.  “He’s great with children.”

That couldn’t be denied.

Children were always the first to get whatever goodies John brought back.  Blankets, food, clothes.  There was even an occasion when he came back with a garbage bag full of stuffed animals.  He was like young Santa with a full beard and twinkling eyes.  Minus the booming voice that had been replaced with a soft spoken breath.  As the ten or so children of the warehouse dug into the bag and laughed at the elephant and giraffe animals, John felt the warmth he did whenever he brought supplies down.  Though he didn’t know, his eyes would liven up and crows’ feet would appear.  Joan would smirk at his rare sign of life.  Mothers would smile, grandmothers would nod and all the men sulked.  At least, that’s what Joan would say she saw.

John never expressed having a favorite child of the shelter – or person for that matter.  There was only the Sophia incident and his supply deliveries.  Other than those, he kept to himself.  When traveling women would flirt, he would blink.  When men snarled, he would blink.  When children asked to play, he would oblige for as long as they wished.  But no words would come from him during this time.  Which in most cases was fine.  Five to seven year olds tend to talk for three or more so talk to John they would.  About what, he couldn’t say.  He wasn’t one to absorb such conversations, just the motions.  He knew that the blonde likes jacks, the redhead playing catch and the bowl cut was obsessed with tic-tac-toe.  Matt just liked to talk to him.  But after two hours, their parents would come and pull them away.

“John’s tired now, sweetie, let him sleep.”

“It’s late, let’s go to bed.”

“Joan wants to talk to John, let’s go.”

“Sophia is coming back soon, you can play tomorrow.”

These were the usual ways to pry a child away from the smelly, bearded man.  As with any small children, there were some fits of rage and noisy tears but eventually they would leave and John would be alone again.  Or worst, it was one of the latter two and he had company. 

It wasn’t to say that he hated Joan or Sophia.  He appreciated what they did, for the shelter and for him.  He just didn’t think he deserved the treatment.  Both women came to understand this within a couple months.

That was another reason Sophia found the whole idea of them being an item some sort of mean joke.  John would never allow himself the luxury of love, companionship or even friendship, it seemed. 

And, ignoring the obvious lack of relationship in general, children were not an option in the homeless world.  Why bring another life into a world with no food, no shelter and clothes with holes?  It seemed almost cruel.  The children they had currently were all brought in by jobless parents.  No couple goes and has a family.  If you are a couple, you are a couple – you are in this weird limbo where you are together but you don’t live alone, don’t have a house together, don’t have children and don’t go on dates. 

It was something John took note of on the days he watched couples.  It made him wish he could go back in time and give all the tuxedos, champagne and small French food he ever had to these lovers that really just co-existed.  They were stripped down to the basics of a relationship, which while beautiful, was limited.  He wondered if he was being superficial, wishing to give these people material things to enjoy.  But then he remembered it didn’t matter because he could never get them those things.  Plus, they would just enjoy them and die in a few years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: It turned into a meta about the homeless whoops. Soon I’m going to tell the story of the orange quilt~

**Author's Note:**

> A/N – I have an idea to make this a series of one-shots based on Reese's hobo days. Not sure yet though. Depends on the interest.


End file.
